


whole lot closer

by ymorton



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, campaign era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 14:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12843597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: “A work of art,” Tommy repeats, lower. Jon shivers hard. “That articulated a stunning, addictive vision for a better America. You like that? Stunning and addictive?”campaign era handjobs, feat. sabotage, praise kink, and hotel lotion





	whole lot closer

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE DON'T SHOW TO ANYONE INVOLVED. completely fictional. 
> 
> on tumblr at podsavemysoul

Tommy watches, heart in his throat. Ronnie’s sniffling next to him, rubbing his hand over his nose.

The speech ends. Tommy claps so hard his hands go numb, and lets himself be swept up in the wave til he’s backstage, still a little breathless. 

Jon has his head bent, listening to Obama murmur in his ear. He looks up when Alex whoops and everyone starts cheering. 

“Alright, alright,” Obama says, putting up his hands, grinning. 

“You _killed_ that, sir,” Tommy says fervently. Jon’s flushed and happy, rubbing his hand over his shorn scalp. Adam slings an arm around his shoulders and he ducks his head sheepishly. 

“Incredible,” Jenny adds. “They loved it.” 

“It was fine,” Axe says. “Don’t let them give you a big head, Senator.”

“It’s too late for Favs,” Alyssa says, snorting. “You can see that thing from space.” 

Jon flips her off behind Obama’s back and Tommy laughs, makes his way through the crowd towards him. 

“That was amazing, man,” he says, throwing his arms around him. Jon’s warm and his cheek is hot and sweaty against Tommy’s neck. Tommy kisses his ear and pulls back, keeping his hands on Jon’s arms.  

“You added some shit after you showed me,” he accuses. “At the end. _A nation healed,_ that was genius. Ronnie was crying like a baby.” 

“All him,” Jon says, nodding over at Obama, off across the room now. “You think I could come up with that stuff?” 

“Yes,” Tommy says honestly, voice coming out hoarse. He still has Jon in his arms and he’s aware that the timer on it being normal is ticking down quick. He doesn’t want to let go. 

Jon’s happy and pink. “Were people into it?” 

“They fucking loved it,” Tommy says, squeezing Jon hard. “You should’ve heard ‘em screaming. Speaking of, I should go do the rounds. I’ll bring back compliments.” 

Jon laughs, shoves him away, and Tommy turns. 

He stops at the door and looks back. Jon’s surrounded by a gaggle of interns, looking happy as a pig in mud. He looks up and catches Tommy’s eye, grins with his tongue between his teeth. 

_Golden_ , Tommy thinks. He clutches the doorjamb and forces himself away, chest tight like there’s a balloon in there, stealing his breath. Fucking golden. 

\---

The balloon in his chest is deflated by the time he gets back from talking to the embeds. It’s nearly eleven and he hasn’t eaten in twelve hours and not _everyone_ loved the speech. Enough did, it wasn’t a reaming, but some Hillary people tore him a new one over the Iraq stuff and of course, one local outlet just had to try and fact-check every fucking line. Tommy feels like he just got pounded in the head with a mallet. 

He has a text from Alex with a room number, presumably for some kind of party, but he ignores it and goes straight to his room, flops down on the bed. He shuts his eyes, exhales slow, just as his phone buzzes next to him. 

It’s Jon. 

_Hey where are you?_

_We’re in 315 .. bout to go down to the pool_

Tommy rolls over onto his stomach, pushing himself up on his elbows. His stomach grumbles and he groans. He definitely ate his last PowerBar on the bus yesterday. He has nothing else. 

_Sooooo fucking tired_ , he sends back. _I might turn in._

_What room u in?_ Jon sends. 

_422\. Sorry im being boring haha_

Jon doesn’t respond. Tommy rolls over to turn the lamp off. 

A half hour goes by, and he’s pretty sure Jon’s given up on him until there’s a soft knock at the door. Tommy sits up, rubbing his face with both hands. 

“Dude,” he hears, through the door. “Are you asleep?” 

“Yeah, go away,” Tommy calls back, snorting as he pushes himself upright.  

When he opens the door he starts laughing helplessly. Jon’s barefoot, in swim trunks and a too-tight t-shirt. His eyes are closed he’s smiling so hard.

“Tommy Vietor,” he says, swaying. “Press guru.” 

“You’re drunk.” Tommy ushers him inside. “Where the fuck are your shoes?” 

“We were swimming,” Jon says, like that’s a sufficient explanation. “But they kicked us out. Because we were being kind of loud, and Alyssa had, like, a wine glass, and it’s after hours-” 

“Don’t tell me there’s a scandal brewing,” Tommy says, handing Jon a water bottle from his desk. “I can’t fucking deal with that tonight.” 

“No scandal. You’re good.” Jon twists the top off and takes a long gulp. He belches into his elbow and leans back against the desk. 

“So,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “What’d people think?” 

“They liked it,” Tommy says. “HuffPo thinks it really put him on the map. Best of the night, they said.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Jon nods, a couple times, bracing himself on the desk with both hands. He looks at Tommy expectantly. 

“What, you want more praise?” Tommy snorts. 

Jon’s drunk enough that he smiles and gives a cute little shrug. “You got more?” 

Tommy laughs and knocks Jon back against the desk with a hand on his belly. “You asshole. You’re unbelievable.” 

Jon’s warm under him, damp. He’s also hard in his swim shorts, and he squirms away, embarrassed, when Tommy looks down to see. It makes something flicker hot in Tommy’s stomach. 

He puts his hands over Jon’s on the counter to keep him there. 

“Here,” he says, breathing hard all of a sudden. He’s fully awake now, senses roaring back to life, just from Jon pressed up against him. “Here, you want me to tell you how smart you are while I jerk you off?” 

“Shut up,” Jon breathes, laughing a little. 

“Dana said it made her cry,” Tommy murmurs, sliding a hand down Jon’s stomach, tugging the bottom of his t-shirt. “And that dude who writes the Iowa blog called it a work of art.” 

Jon’s staring at him with his mouth hanging open as Tommy runs his fingers over his dick in his shorts. 

“A work of _art_ ,” Tommy repeats, lower. Jon shivers hard. “That articulated a stunning, addictive vision for a better America. You like that? Stunning and addictive?” 

Jon laughs again, the kind of helpless laugh he does instead of talking sometimes, when he’s shy or tired. Tommy loves that laugh, loves how Jon can be shy sometimes even though he’s so fucking good at what he does. If Tommy was that good at _anything_ , he’d never be shy. 

“You want more?” He grips Jon’s cock through his shorts. Jon won’t stop staring at him, eyes dark. 

“Tommy,” he says on an exhale. Tommy’s wracking his brain for more compliments. For some reason the only thing he can think of is the Hillary guy who got in his face and started ranting about Iraq, like he really wanted Tommy to knock him out even though he was about a foot shorter than him. That would probably kill the mood. What an asshole. 

Luckily Jon’s starting to press up into his touch, eyelids fluttering, and he doesn’t look like he’ll mind if Tommy can’t think of anything else. He looks like all he wants is to be spread out on the bed and fucked til he cries. But that’s- that’s just Tommy’s brain being gross, because they’ve never done that, and Jon’s straight. He just likes Tommy’s hand on his dick sometimes. 

Tommy’s brain has been gross a lot more recently, since Jon got to Iowa. It’s harder when Jon’s there, real, sprawling on Tommy’s creaky hotel bed with his laptop, squeezing his shoulders during morning meetings, pressed up against him on long bus rides to events in the distant corners of the state. 

“They loved it,” Tommy says vaguely, reaching down with both hands, sliding Jon’s shorts off. Jon’s hard and eager but he stays so still, hands still tight on the desk. It’s heady how he does that, waits for Tommy to decide. If they ever have more than like, ten fucking minutes, Tommy wants to see what else Jon will wait for. 

He wants to kiss Jon, too. He wants to kiss him right now but Jon might freak out. So he just curls his hand around Jon’s dick and gives him a squeeze. Jon murmurs in his throat and arches his hips up and - there’s a pounding at the door. 

Tommy lets go and steps backward. “Shit,” he breathes, as Jon mutters, “Fuck.” 

He pulls away and Jon stumbles away from the desk, yanking up his shorts. 

Tommy peers through the peep hole and starts laughing, bubbling giddily up in his throat. Shit. It’s a whole crowd of them, mostly barefoot and in t-shirts and shorts. Alyssa’s carrying a pizza box and Alex has a six-pack. He yanks open the door. 

“How dare you, dude!” Alex says, laughing. “Can’t believe you tried to skip out on the party. You’ll sleep when you’re dead. We’re coming in.” 

“We brought pizza!” Alyssa yells, face flushed from wine. “Pepperoni-pineapple, your disgusting favorite-“ 

Tommy holds open the door to let them in. What else can he do? He looks back to check on Jon, who’s sitting cross-legged on Tommy’s bed, a pillow over his lap. He gives Tommy a rueful look and Tommy snorts out some of the adrenaline in his chest, lets the door swing shut and takes the beer Alex shoves into his hand. Jesus fucking Christ. That was close. 

\--- 

Tommy’s phone rings at 7:00 AM the next morning. He groans and ignores it for six rings, until Jon mumbles something behind him and bats at his side. Tommy fumbles for the nightstand, not lifting his head. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Tommy Vietor.” 

“Hungover?” says a chipper, unfamiliar male voice. 

“Huh? Who is this?” 

“Your worst nightmare,” the guy says, with relish that Tommy really can’t process so early in the morning. “Why did the Obama crew get drunk and _trash_ the hotel pool area late last night, disturbing innocent patrons and breaking glass all over the place? I heard an old lady cut her foot open and had to get _stitches_. Gosh. What a shame.” 

“What? _What_?” Tommy sits up and groans involuntarily at the stab of pain through his head. “What? Who is this?” 

“I mean, that’s what I told the embeds,” the voice says cheerily. “Good luck cleaning up that mess, Tommy Vietor. You guys might actually have to take a break from jerking yourselves off to do some real work.” 

“Who the fuck is this?” Tommy snaps, but there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach. He’s pretty sure he knows. “Do you work for Hillary? How did you get this number?” 

“So paranoid, Vietor. How dare you accuse the first major-party female candidate for President of _sabotage_. That’s so disrespectful.”

“You son of a bitch,” Tommy hisses, clenching his hand in the sheets. Jon stirs sleepily behind him. “You- you- I’m gonna find you and- and kick your ass, you little rat-” 

“Too late,” the guy sings. “Unlike your team of overgrown frat bros, we actually work in the mornings. We’re halfway to Decorah by now.”

“You’re gonna pay for this, you fucking stupid, lame, pathetic little-“ 

The guy laughs and hangs up before Tommy can finish his scathing insult. Tommy stares at the wall, incandescent with rage, until his phone buzzes in his hand again. It’s the Des Moines Register. _Fuck_. 

He hops off the bed and goes into the bathroom. 

“Tommy?” Jon mumbles, and Tommy shuts the door behind him. 

“This is Tommy,” he says into the phone, as brightly as he can manage. “Good morning!” 

“Tommy,” the reporter says, laughing - fuck, Tommy can’t remember her name. Erin. Emily. Something with an E. “Rough night?” 

Tommy puts a hand over his face. He’s sweating. “You heard?” 

“My room’s by the pool, I was up til midnight,” she says, and Tommy nods, jaw clenching. Of course she was. Of course. 

“So, so sorry about that, Emily. We were just blowing off some steam.”  

“Emma,” she says, sounding less amused. 

“Emma, of course. Sorry. It’s early.” Tommy hates everything and his head won’t stop throbbing. “Let me just say before you get started. We were blowing off some steam after a great night, our campaign staff works their asses off, and a few broken glasses really isn’t a story. Of course we’ll pay for any damage, and as for the reported injury, well, we’re extremely sorry and we’ll be happy to take care of that as well-“ 

“Wait wait wait,” she says, snorting. “What? Who got hurt? God, don’t tell me you guys broke some poor intern’s leg doing a keg stand or whatever.” 

Tommy stops, slides his hand off his face. He stares at himself in the mirror, queasy and sweaty. 

“Uhh,” he asks. “Wait, what?” 

“Was someone injured last night? I didn’t hear that. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad, I put my earplugs in and fell asleep pretty easy.” 

Tommy swallows hard, mind racing. “No, uh, no one was injured, I was just- uh, joking. Just a joke.” 

“I’m not gonna bust you on a little hotel party, even if you didn’t invite me. And I’m pretty sure I was the only embed on the ground floor, so your secret’s safe with me.” 

Tommy squints at his pale reflection. “Thanks for, um, being cool about that,” he says faintly. “Sorry we kept you up.”  

“It’s fine,” she says, sounding as confused as he is. “I’m just calling with a couple follow-up questions from last night. I figured I’d catch you before you hit the road.” 

Tommy lets out a heavy breath and resists the urge to slam his shaking hand against the wall as hard as he can. That fucking _freak_. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says, turning away from the mirror and sinking down to sit on the closed toilet. “Yeah, what can I help you with?”

\---

After he hangs up he grits his teeth and scrolls through his calls, sends a text to the number that called him at 7:03 AM.

_You fucking psycho_ , he types. _Watch ur back._

He hits send and immediately regrets it. God, he’s stupid. That’s probably exactly what the fucker wanted. He’ll probably show it to everyone and laugh his ass off about the Obama idiot who fell for his sadistic little stunt. 

He leans to the left and knocks his head against the cool wall, just as the door handle turns slowly. 

It’s Jon, squinty-eyed and yawning, scratching his bare belly. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Tommy says weakly. 

“Press stuff?” Jon asks, nodding at the phone in his hand. 

“Yeah,” Tommy mumbles. He leans his head back against the wall, tries not to stare. Luckily Tommy’s spent enough time around dudes in their underwear that he’s pretty good at keeping his eyes up. It’s just hard with Jon, because his stomach’s soft and pale and inviting and there’s this trail of dark hair down into his boxers. 

“Hey,” he says, exhaustedly, because he has to check. “No one like, broke a bunch of glass in the pool area last night, did they?”

Jon squints at him. “What? No. They just told us to go upstairs because we were being too loud.” 

“So no one stepped on glass.” 

“Dude, what?” Jon laughs. “Did someone say that?” 

“No,” Tommy mutters murderously. He checks his phone. No messages. 

“Are you okay?”

Tommy nods, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Just hungover.” 

“Me too,” Jon groans. “When are we heading out?” 

Tommy has no clue. They’ve been prepping for this dinner for so long he’s barely thought about what comes after. He thinks involuntarily about that asshole on the phone. _Halfway to Decorah by now_. 

They work plenty hard. Just because they’re not all fucking evil nerds who don’t sleep- 

“Do you mind, uh,” Jon says, huffing a laugh. “I have to pee.” 

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Tommy stands up. He splashes cold water over his face in the sink, keeps his eyes carefully down while Jon takes a leak. Jon flushes and pulls his boxers back up, nudges Tommy aside to wash his hands. 

“Sorry about last night,” he says, not looking at him. “Everyone showing up, I mean. I swear I didn’t know they were gonna do that.” 

Tommy laughs. “It’s cool. I wasn’t the one with blue balls.” 

He catches the curve of Jon’s sheepish grin in the mirror. “Yeah, that was messed-up. Great timing, guys.” 

His boxers are low on his hips and Tommy can see the curve of his ass.

“Could make it up to you,” he says, offhand. 

Jon looks at him in the mirror, dark-eyed and interested. 

“How much time we got?” he asks, biting his soft bottom lip. Tommy’s stomach clenches, and he reaches out to tug Jon’s underwear halfway down his ass. His skin’s so pale, and soft when Tommy puts his fingers on it, curving his hand around Jon's hip. 

“Enough time,” he says. He has no idea. Probably not enough time. There's never enough time. 

"You sure about that?" 

"No," Tommy admits, huffing a laugh. He takes a step closer, boxes Jon against the sink. "So you better go fast." 

"What?" 

"Here," Tommy says, not even sure what the hell he's saying. He takes Jon's wrists in his and puts his hands on the counter, on either side of the sink. "Think you can get off before we have to leave?" 

"I dunno," Jon says, laughing nervously. "What time is it?"

He makes a move like he's gonna turn around and Tommy sets his hands on Jon's, presses them down. Jon's wrists flex under his but he doesn't try to get away. He could if he wanted, Tommy knows, and Jon staying there for him sets his brain on fire. 

"Just hold on," Tommy breathes, taking a hand off to push Jon's boxers further down. When his dick's exposed they both let out a shaky breath. Tommy can't stop staring in the mirror, at Jon's whole pale body, his cock half-hard and pink. He reaches past Jon for the lotion next to the sink. 

"Dude," Jon says, snorting. "Don't use that shit." 

"Why not?" 

Jon shrugs, face red. "What if it gives me a rash or something." 

"It's not gonna give you a rash," Tommy says, popping open the bottle with his thumb. He reaches around Jon's waist to squirt some on his other hand. "It'll feel good." 

"You sure?" 

"Dude, I've jerked off with hotel lotion so many times in the last year, it's actually pathetic. I'm an expert by now." 

Jon cracks up but his breath catches when Tommy touches him again. 

"Cold," he breathes, shifting on his feet. 

"Sorry," Tommy murmurs, going a little faster like that'll help. Jon gets hard in his hand, breathing shallow and fast. The lotion makes it slick, easy to tug fast and tight, and for a while Tommy just amuses himself doing that, feeling Jon's cock flex in his hand, swiping his thumb gently over the head of his cock and watching it in the mirror. 

"So fucking good," he mumbles against Jon's shoulder. 

"Thought we were in a hurry," Jon says, breathlessly. His eyes are closed. He always keeps his eyes closed when they do this. Most of the time it doesn't bother Tommy but this morning, right now, he wants- 

He fists Jon's dick hard, drags his hand up, and Jon groans and drops his head. 

“No, dude, look,” Tommy says, low, right against the warm shell of Jon’s ear. “Look at it.” 

“Tommy,” Jon gasps, head hanging. Tommy takes him by the chin and makes him look up. They catch eyes in the mirror and it’s so hot Tommy loses his focus for a second, hand going slack on Jon’s dick. He watches himself drag his open mouth along the curve of Jon’s shoulder, and Jon just stares at him, stunned. 

“Tommy,” he says again, breathless. He shivers when Tommy mouths below his ear. 

“Look how much you like me touching your dick,” Tommy says shakily. “So fucking hard, Favs. Jesus.” 

Jon bucks back against him, letting out a groan. 

“You see it?” 

“God, Tommy,” Jon mumbles. 

“You’re so hard for me,” Tommy says, blind from it. He spits in his hand and puts it back on Jon’s dick and Jon’s elbows sag. Tommy wraps an arm around his shuddering stomach to keep him up. 

“Look, god, fuck,” he gasps. “Look at yourself.” 

Jon looks, face red, mouth open. Tommy sees his eyes drop to his cock in Tommy’s hand. 

“Gonna make you come,” Tommy promises, pulling him harder. 

“Fuck,” Jon mumbles, hands clenching on the edge of the sink, hips rolling into Tommy’s fist. He gasps, high in his throat. “Fucking Christ.” 

“Yeah, that feels good,” Tommy chokes. He bites the meat of Jon’s shoulder. 

“So good,” Jon groans, hips working, eyes fluttering shut. Tommy keeps his hand steady and lets Jon fuck the tight circle of his fingers. “Jesus, fucking-“ 

His hips stutter as his voice gives out and Tommy watches him spurt white all over his stomach and Tommy’s hand. His face in the mirror as he comes is like fucking- art. Tommy wants to watch it over and over again. 

“Look,” Tommy manages to say, dragging his fingers through it, smeared sticky in Jon’s belly hair. “Look.” 

Jon opens his eyes, bleary. He looks down at the mess he’s made and gives a final little shudder in Tommy’s arms. 

“Jesus,” Tommy says, breathless. He presses his forehead to Jon’s shoulder, snugs himself up against him until his dick’s in the small of his back. Jon feels so good and solid against him, smells like sweat and sex.  

“Yeah,” Jon mumbles, pressing right back, less tense and more pliant now, rubbing slow against Tommy like he likes how it feels. He arches his back and Tommy’s cock slips down, head dragging right between Jon’s-

There’s a knock at the door, so loud Tommy yelps and staggers backward. 

“Yo, Tommy, we’re leaving in ten!” 

Another couple knocks, and then Adam yells- “You’re gonna miss breakfast, hurry up!” 

Tommy braces himself against the wall, breath shuddering in his throat. 

“Fuck,” he chokes. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Jon’s bright red, already grabbing for a washcloth to clean himself up. 

“Sorry,” he says, wincing, like it’s his fault Adam has the worst fucking timing imaginable. He offers the washcloth to Tommy. 

“It’s cool,” Tommy says, still breathless, even though it’s really not cool. His dick aches, a heavy throb between his legs. God he wants to fuck Jon. He wants a lazy free morning and a hotel bed and to just- _fuck Jon_. “I’m just gonna, um. Take a quick shower. I’ll meet you down there.”  

Jon nods, not looking at him, and ducks out of the bathroom. Tommy groans at his reflection and turns the water on cold. 

\---

They’re on the highway a half hour later. Tommy’s hungry and pissed-off and tense and Jon’s all the way on the other side of the van, head bent over his laptop as Axe dictates stuff to him. 

“Who pissed in your cornflakes, sweetheart?” Alyssa asks, leaning over the seat in front of him and pinching his cheek. “Can we talk about next week’s schedule? I come bearing breakfast.” 

She hands over a to-go cup and a napkin-wrapped muffin and Tommy accepts them grudgingly, takes a gulp from the cup. The coffee’s hot and unexpectedly sweet.

“My secret is half a packet of hot chocolate. It’s a DIY mocha. It’s good, right?” 

Tommy pops a chunk of muffin in his mouth. He looks up and catches Jon’s eye, over the top of his laptop. 

Jon doesn’t smile, just looks at Tommy quietly and helplessly, like he can’t keep himself from thinking about what they did. Tommy can’t either. He tears his eyes away, back to the calendar Alyssa’s shoving in his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, taking another swig, shivering as he swallows hard, heat spreading down his throat. “Yeah, it’s good.” 

 


End file.
